


The Art of Growth

by Mitooshka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Character Death, Character Drabble, Gen, Multi, Plot Spoilers, Slightly Bard/Thranduil if you squint, inner monologue, understanding finally
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 00:19:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4458086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mitooshka/pseuds/Mitooshka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Thranduil realizes that as much as he tries to lock himself away from the shifting and turning of the world, there comes a time where he must change as well. For what is the movement of the seasons if not a constant dance of growth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Growth

         He did not venture out of the wood, his feet did not carry him out of the still trees with their long dark branches. They did not carry him away from decaying leaves, cobbled stone cracked and worn from age. They did not bring him out from the sorrow that surrounded his home—no from his captivity, his cage which he prowls at odd hours of the night, sick from loss.  
  


* * *

  
       He stayed there, behind the thick walls and the heavy beams of his dungeons, of the light curtains that hid him from view. In the open and airy chambers, he felt stifled against his will but his will did not carry him outside either. He struggled to keep his son from recognizing the wonder of the world, paralyzed in deep fright that if he did he would lose as much as he had on that fateful day when – he would try his best to save his son from the harshness of the outside but he knew that all things forbidden tasted that much sweeter.  
  


* * *

 

           The areas surrounding Erebor were barren and filled with want; want of life and for the birds to return to the mountain. He felt this in his bones, felt it in the way the land seemed to sing to him, a slow and cautious melody as if unsure he would hear it. The way the cliffs pulled him and the way the ruins of the ancient city of Dale seemed to tug at the bones in his being, tug at his soul and whispered to him,  _“these are the fragments of all those broken.”_  
  


* * *

           He thought the dwarf a fool, from the moment he had first laid eyes upon his kin he thought him a fool for bringing such wrath on a simple race of people. Despite his cruelty and the coldness that festered in his heart since the loss of – he had felt pity for the innocence that had been lost on that wicked day. But he would shake his head free of them after a long and tiring day, try to keep the screams and images of Durin’s folk running for the safety of their lives. He would try to drown out the feel of the dragon fire on his skin, the screeching in his ears as he turned away from the suffering of those below him. Loss was not felt all at once, but for decades.   
  


* * *

  
  
           They called him the Cold King behind his back. Even those who worked in his very dominion seemed to whisper about him, seemed to insult him at every turn and call him wicked and uncertain. He had not wanted this in the beginning but the loss of – having felt unkind feelings lead beings to unkind lives, and so this Cold King lived out his days locked inside his caged kingdom begging to be free of so much.  
  


* * *

  
  
           His son hates him, he is convinced that he has lost the will to go on in a split second. His own flesh and blood disliking the tree he was born from, the soil he was grown from, the sky he had dropped from. He wishes that things had been different, that the world had not brought upon so much pain and that he had remained the same as when he was younger. His son feels it, this change in his father like that of the weather, like the change of seasons from when the grass is green and full to when it is barren and cast with shadows. There is a mixture of emotion inside his chest; anger and resentment towards those around him but he swallows them, beckons them away and moves on. The Cold King was not meant to rule with passion, that had long since gone away. He was meant to be resilient, to be stay rooted to the ground even when the ground was crumbling around him.   
  


* * *

  
  
           The Bowman’s lips are moving but he cannot focus, his ears are not trained on the words being spoken to him and it isn’t until the Bowman snaps him into attention that he does. He comes out of his thoughts with a slight blink of his eyes; memories from long ago drifting past his open vision like ghosts that still haunted his shoulders. The Bowman is looking concerned…almost. The Cold King thoroughly believes that there is no affection held in a person’s eyes, that one does not receive gratitude unless they earn it. Unless there is a reason to receive niceties. Still, he tries to focus back on the Bowman’s speech, on his battle plan but he can feel himself drift up and away from this miserable place.  
  


* * *

  
  
           The ground is stained in blood and the armor of his folk is spilled like leaves; glorious reds and golds like jewels soaked into the dirt. He walks among them, gazes upon their faces in desperate need of recognition. For hours he does not know what he is searching for until he realizes he cannot find it. All the bodies seem the same, the same sort of pasted look of peace on their faces as if they had died in true happiness. The Cold King thinks this to be ironic, thinks it to be humorous in a morbid sense for he sees how is people trusted him despite his paranoia. They gave their lives for him, for his kingdom and he feels their heavy burden. He feels it and among the glowing warmth of them, he in his silver and wintry cast steel, it crushes him.  
  


* * *

  
  
            _‘There is light at the end of this dark tunnel_ ’ he thinks as he watches his son stride towards him. As he sees the same shocking blue of his eyes meet his own, he sees and he understands the fear and knowing and understanding. He watches as his son struggles to tell him that he is to leave, that he cannot and will not go back to a life deemed unworthy by him. That he seeks freedom and solutions and  _freedom_  oh goodness! how he seeks it. The Cold King beckons him away, he lets him leave with a sound mind and he feels more than he has felt in thousands of years and he recognizes that stirring in his chest; forgiveness.   
  


* * *

  
  
           She is laying there, cradling the broken body of a child of Durin. She does not look at him at first, she mumbles, she weeps and sobs at the loss of him. The Cold King does not know what to do, only knows that the last time they spoke was in ill and that he had promptly cut her down. Now he watches her grief run rampant on her body, watches it as it sinks into the ground and flutters in the air becoming so much more than she simply is. He feels this pain in him, the tragic reminder that he had  _been_  her before. Perhaps, he thinks, this is why he had disregarded her so much and thought her juvenile; she felt the same things he had when he was her age. The struggle of loss was never an easy one and he would rather face a horde of Uruk-hai than challenge pain at a contest of strength. And so when she looks at him in desperation, begging him to take away the feelings that she has he cannot do anything but answer her. He tells her the truth and he takes his leave, let’s her have her moment of absence.   
  


* * *

  
  
           He walks. He watches. He puts his sword away, he takes off his breastplate, he removes his cuffs and his gloves, he removes the crown from his head. He stands in the middle of the wrecks and ruins of Dale, amidst the bodies of those who fell for him. He stands a new with the promise of life in him. He stands he looks down upon his breast plate and watches with fascination at the color of his eyes. The silver light of them, menacing that they had been had turned into the color of forget-me-nots. Into the color of the summer sky, into the softest hues of azure and cerulean and he looks up at the clouds that hang so above his head. He feels the early rays of the winter sun and he notices, how warm they feel on his face.

**Author's Note:**

> Thranduil's psyche is always going to be something incredible and I am so saddened that it is not followed through in the books.


End file.
